


Sleep Warmly Tonight

by EmeraldSage



Series: The Holiday Collection [24]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: America's just been really busy, Cameo Appearance by England, Christmas Decorations, Christmas Eve, Existing Relationship, M/M, Prompt Day 24: Christmas Eve, Really it's just him setting up for Christmas, RusAmeHoliday, Setting up for Christmas, gingerbread, over the phone
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-24
Updated: 2016-12-24
Packaged: 2018-09-11 06:00:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,213
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8957938
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EmeraldSage/pseuds/EmeraldSage
Summary: RusAme Holiday Prompt #24: Christmas Eve





	

**Author's Note:**

> Not the most exciting of my works, but something quiet and warm. No actual Ivan present, but he's in America's thoughts. Hope that's okay! He'll be there tomorrow for Christmas!

            The tree was done, he thought with no small measure of satisfaction as he sat back on his heels and took in the masterpiece he’d constructed. The tree was real, different from most years when he barely had time to get the plastic tree up at all, and all around, its boughs were twined with popcorn garlands, and twirling tinsel in brilliant colors. There were ornaments hanging delicately from the evergreen limbs. Most were his own; some were wooden ornaments that had been carved by him as a growing child, others gifted stained glasslike material that hung delicately. There were some more modern ornaments, some childlike in their craftiness. Some superhero ornaments hung around discretely; he’d been unable to avoid that one, even in his mind.

            Then, there were the ornaments he hadn’t used as often. There was one, pale pink, with a pattern like a woven scarf, and smooth to the touch. Another was crafted to look like the night sky, constellations painstakingly painted onto the smooth wooden surface, and refreshed every year when it seemed to fade. One was a metallic construct of a sunflower that he’d made with his own hands, carving amber-yellow topaz gemstones into delicate petals to set into a delicate silver stem. He rarely pulled that one out, worried that it would get damaged when he hosted most of his family over for Christmas (and, perhaps, that it would give away too much on who he spent the season with when he wasn’t with them).

            But he needed it this time; he would have a special visitor come morning light. And, it gleamed gorgeously against the evergreen backdrop, and matched with the soft knit stockings he’d hung up on the mantelpiece.

            And, indeed, on the mantelpiece were two stockings, hung in the middle over the currently barren hearth. One was a soft, icy blue, like the pale color of a glacier’s ice layer that had just been revealed, with stars embroidered in brilliant crimson and white onto the surface of the stocking. His name was stitched in loopy, elaborate cursive, on the white brim in a beautiful dark navy that reminded him of Old Glory. The stocking next to his was a pale lavender color that reminded him of the hydrangeas he used to keep in his garden. On the body of the stocking, lovingly embroidered in gold thread, was a pair of sunflowers growing next to each other, curling so they faced each other as if the other flower was the sun they sought. On the white brim was his lover’s name scrawled in loopy lettering, in deep violet thread that almost matched his eyes. Anchoring them both on the mantelpiece was a strong statuette of a Christmas tree, with a sprig of real holly and mistletoe dangling between the two brims.

            He grinned at his masterpiece before rising, wincing slightly as he straightened, before moving into the kitchen. The oven’s beeping caught his attention before he could go very far, and he moved towards it to remove the tray of gingerbread cookies he’d slid in a little while ago. They seemed pleasantly sturdy, and warm, very warm. He couldn’t put the frosting on it just yet, but maybe in a half-hour or so…. He settled them onto one of his clear countertops, and slid in another tray he’d made earlier, leaving it to bake before moving further into the kitchen.

            He knelt down to the cupboards and opened the wine cooler along with the dry cupboard next to it, to check and make sure he had the alcohol they both favored. Whiskey and scotch, along with some of his favorites were always in stock; he wasn’t much of a drinker, but he kept them on hand for the days he did, along with any guests that might prefer something alcoholic. He didn’t carry rum, though; Arthur was far too fond of it.

            But there it was! There were bottles of wine for Christmas dinner, scotch and vodka for the after dinner, _ahem_ , celebration. There was eggnog he’d stashed in the cooler that he took out and set on the countertop; that he’d have to use to pour a glass for Tino, when he dropped by sometime at night.

            He was so glad he’d been able to find Ivan’s favorite brand of vodka at all. He’d hardly had the time to go searching for it, having only been off from work for a matter of hours before he’d had to hit the stores. As it was, it had taken him three Costco’s, two Wal-Mart’s, one overpriced liquor store, and a Giant before he found the ones he bought. Finding good wine had been even harder (beer, not so much though). It had been so difficult to find all his holiday supplies so late in the season. He had only been lucky that one of his neighbors had bought an extra tree for a family member that ended up not needing it. They’d passed it off gladly, asking for little in the way of payment. He’d been relieved that he wouldn’t need to break out the plastic tree for yet another year.

            Especially this year.

            It was an equal exchange, they’d decided. Ivan was coming to spend Christmas here in America with him, even if an unavoidable meeting meant he couldn’t come until morning the day of. He would travel with Ivan to Russia for New Years and Russian Christmas on the 7th. They’d spend those few weeks together, which was a massive achievement over the rest of the year. They could never really spend much time with each other lately.

            He shivered abruptly, noticing the sudden chill in his home that came with the approaching nighttime. He moved away from the cabinet to go back to the living room.

            He knelt gently in front of his hearth, shuffling the grate a little further away. He’d swept the fireplace out a few days ago, and – he eyed it critically – it didn’t look as though it would need another sweeping. He sighed, relieved. One chore, at least, had been avoided today. He shuffled some of the logs from the wood he’d stacked on the cold marble base of the fireplace, and slid them into place within the hearth space. Once he had a decent stack going – one that would probably last him all night if he kept it on that long – he arranged them carefully before striking a match and setting it alight.

            The soft crackle of the sparks catching life in their wooden cage was an enchanting little sound that always brought back fond memories too him.

            He sat back a bit, settling himself on his heels, sliding the grate in place as he dusted himself off. He slid the wood off to the side of the fireplace, where the softly roaring blaze could not consume it, and they remained just out of the main line of sight. He smiled, happy with the way it looked, and stood, stretching a bit to work out the kinks in his back.

            The “ding!” of the timer he’d set for his cookies to cool went off, and he slowly migrated back into the kitchen. He picked up a frosting bag and set to work on the gingerbread cookies. Some of the first batch would be for Tino, the others he would snack on. The ones in the oven would be for tomorrow.

            The obnoxious blaring ringtone coming from his phone shook him out of his decorating trance, and he slid his hand to his back pocket, where his phone had taken residence, and pulled it up to answer it.

            “You’ve reached the hero,” he said cheerfully into his cell phone, sliding it under his cheek to keep it in place while he added the final touches of frosting to the gingerbread cookies.

            He hummed softly as the voice on the other end sobbed relentless, bemoaning his fate, slightly drunk. He chanced a quick glance at the digital clock set into the stovetop, and bit back a sigh. It must’ve been nearing midnight across the Atlantic; Christmas Eve was no time for Iggy to be out moping in a pub and getting drunk.

            He set down the frosting on the countertop closest to him, and toweled down his hands to clear them of flour and frosting (amongst other things), before he snuck his phone out from the crevice he’d snuck it into. He slid the lock open and sent a quick message to his brother. Matt was staying with Francis this year for Christmas, and he knew that they’d be able to get to a drunken Arthur faster than he would.

            A slightly louder shout from the phone caught his attention again, and he pressed it back to his ear as Arthur slurred something drunkenly at him. He felt a sad smile twist at his lips, but refused to let it take over his expression. In these situations, it was best to let Arthur just rant. That’s all he wanted to do when he was drunk, even though he protested that accusation a lot while he was sober.

            It was hard some times, especially around the holiday season, where they had so many _memories_ to look back on…

            The ‘ding!’ of the oven caught his attention just before he could descend into melancholy like Arthur already had, and he smiled. He set the phone on speaker – where he could hear his former colonizer’s rant over the Christmas music channel he’d put on earlier – as he took out the newest batch of gingerbread. He would have to leave these to cool for a bit before he frosted them. Maybe he and Ivan could frost them together? It would be something fun to do after presents were opened and exchanged in the morning.

            He let the pies – both chicken pot pies and veggie pies, Ivan had insisted – remain in the still-warm oven. He didn’t want them to lose their warmth.

            He stood, phone still cradled in one hand and a small plate in another, as he moved towards the living room. He could hear Matthew over the phone for a split second before the line disconnected, and he glanced at it, surprised. Matthew must’ve been in the country to have found Arthur so quickly. He put the plate of carefully frosted gingerbread cookies down on the small table, slipping back to the kitchen to snag a glass for the eggnog he knew Tino loved to drink. He always kept some for Christmastime.

            He looked around his living room, taking in the garlands decorating his window frames, the candles lit along the ledge, the warm throw splayed on the beige couch, splashed with the firelight from the hearth, and the gleam of the same light against the shining ornaments decorating his evergreen tree. He smiled, heart warming. He reached over to pull the throw, warm and woolen and gently embroidered by loving hands centuries ago, close to him, tucking his sock-clad feet underneath him as he folded himself into the armchair next to the fire. He wrapped the warm blanket around himself, tucking in the folds he could reach, and reclining his head against the soft padding of the chair.

            Two stockings gleamed against the hearth’s light, purple and faded ice blue, and he knew when he woke in the morning, they’d be filled with goodies and presents galore.

            He couldn’t _quite_ help the yawn he let out, settling himself down into the soft fabric. _Mmm_ , it was wonderfully warm down here. He heard the Christmas music channel he’d put on while he’d been decorating start up again. Ivan would be there in the morning, and he looked forwards to it, but it was only barely past twilight now…there was so much still to do…

            He was sure, though, that Ivan wouldn’t blame him for falling asleep a little early…not when it was so wonderfully nice…

            The phone slipped down onto the carpeted floor with a soft _thump_ as he drifted off to the soft, timeless voice of Nat King Cole’s _“Chestnuts roasting on an open fire, Jack Frost nipping at your nose…”_ just as the sun sank past the horizon, and the night came alive outside, all around him. The firelight danced across his body, shimmering in soft joy. The house seemed to emit a soft sense of loving warmth, just as it did every year its beloved owner could find the time to tidy and decorate for the much adored holiday season. The wind was chill outside, and the air scented of rain, but everything and everyone within its protective warmth was shielded.

            The fire dimmed, just slightly, even as its warmth increased. The tree’s boughs shifted, so no gleam could pester and wake the tired sleeper. The music of the TV seemed to gentle, just as the furor of the weather faded. The scent of gingerbread became far more subtle, the cinnamon no longer the heady invitation to taste. The blanket curled, just a little tighter, and the seat softened, slightly comfier. Alfred shifted in his sleep, and on his face, a small smile bloomed. The warmth curled around him happily.

            And the house settled in contentment, waiting patiently for its owner to awake again, for Christmas Day.


End file.
